A Question of Consent
When Nichole’s eyes opened the first thing she noticed was that she was in a strange bed, and then that there was a strange guy beside her in it. She’d awakened next to guys before, of course, but never a complete stranger. The surprise of it was astonishing. She had no idea who this guy was, or of how she’d come to be here. She’d never even seen him around campus. He was not attractive, certainly not someone she would ever, ever let near her under ordinary circumstances. But these were not ordinary circumstances, were they? She’d been hammered last night. Even as she stared at him slow memories bubbled up from the depths of last night’s cesspool, providing her with snapshots of truth. Her addled brain refused to show her entire scenes at a time, only still images which couldn’t be real, could they? She could not have done those things. She would not have! Not with this guy, and not with any other stranger, either. Hell, she’d never done some of those things with guys she knew, and liked.
But here she was, lying beside this gross looking guy whose name she couldn’t even remember. “Tanner,“ she thought, “or Turner,“ or some-such shit, and in his apartment too. In his bed. She cringed at that. She had to get up. Dear god, she had to get up! There was no telling what he did in this bed when alone. Though she willed herself up, she was just too fucking shitty to move. But she had to move, didn’t she? Fuck yes, she had to move. So what if she threw up on his floor? If she didn’t get up she was likely to get sick right here in his bed.
Still, she didn’t move immediately. The guy’s uncovered body was blob-like beside her, like a pillow, not really fat, but soft and putty-ish, a shapeless blob in its current fetal posture, a blob with short reddish hairs almost like pubes everywhere, and an ass rash that pimpled the backs of his thighs.
What the fucking fuck? Stifling a gag she turned her eyes away from him.
Nichole did then the only thing she really could do. Despite her pounding head she eased from the bed ever-so carefully, desperate not to wake him. She fumbled around, the only light an early morning gray which crept in around the edges of the patio door’s vertical blinds, barely enough to find a shoe here, panties there, her black dress, and finally her purse. The stairwell was spinning as she descended, sickening her again. The heavy steel security door at the bottom clunked shut behind her. It was cold on the sidewalk. Her jacket? She’d had it last night. Fuck, it was probably upstairs. Turning around, she tried the knob. Locked. Fucking fuck!
The cold produced a shiver. Despite herself she thought about the guy in the bed upstairs lying naked, flabby, and gross. Again her stomach turned, only this time Nichole did throw up it’s contents on the sidewalk, uncaring that it splattered on her shoes and feet. She began to cry.
She never would have done it with a guy like that, she thought… had sex that is. But then she had a too clear memory of going down on him, his hand pushing the top of her head downward, his eager anticipation of the act hurrying her along. With that her stomach heaved and she threw up again. Her stomach now emptied, she glanced either way up and down the deserted street. Nothing looked familiar. Where the fuck was she?
Bits and pieces of memory recalled the two of them staggering away from the bar, laughing loudly as they went. They had walked here together, which meant that she had to be near campus, but which direction? The apartment complex was large, with every building exactly alike. Unsure of the proper direction, she turned right and started walking. Once away from the building’s protection the wind found her, whipping at her bare arms and legs. The morning sky was still gray, adding depth to the fog in her brain. Another right and she saw the University Chapel across the street. She was on the far side of the campus, a good fifteen to twenty minute walk, but by the time a ride share arrived she could be there. She started walking, swiping with the palm of her hand at the disgust and humiliation streaming from her eyes and nose as she went.
Misery and the wind sped her along. Between those things and the cold her hand shook so that the key would not go in the knob. It was Sunday morning, and thankfully early. No one in the sorority house was moving yet. After a hot shower Nichole put on some panties and a sweatshirt, then eased out of her own room and into Teresa’s, where she crawled into bed with her friend.
”Hey girl!“ Teresa’s voice was sleepy. “Everything ok?”
Nichole thought about that for a long minute. How much to tell? But what she said next would unexpectedly light the fuse on a truth bomb, making her wish for a long time after that she’d said something else, anything else. What she was looking for when she said it was sympathy. What she expected was to be comforted, to be assured that everything was alright, and maybe to have her hair stroked while hearing it, but what her comment sparked was something else entirely. “No, Tera. I think I was raped.”
Teresa bolted upright. From the look on her face Nichole could see she had flipped a switch in her housemate that would be impossible to un-flip. “What do you mean, ‘I think I was raped?’ Did that guy from the bar force himself on you?”
”Yes... no… not really, fuck! I can’t remember. I sort of remember going into his apartment with him, and that‘s pretty much it.”
Teresa, a law student, already had her phone in hand and was texting away with what was to Nichole astounding speed and dexterity, while continuously muttering at the same time, “Oh my God… oh my God… oh my God. Nicki, think. You have to remember. This is very important. Tell me everything you remember… everything. Right now, while it’s fresh.”
Nichole did not want to tell Teresa everything, especially not right now. Nichole felt like shit. What Nichole wanted was to cuddle up beside her friend and go to sleep, but Teresa’s tone was urgent, and uncharacteristically commanding. “Sit up, Nichole. Lari and Candace are on their way. I’ll start some coffee, but I need you awake and remembering.
The four girls were all hung-over, having used last night to celebrate the end of mid-terms. They sat close together, Indian-style in the queen-sized bed, warm in their baggy sweatpants and hoodies. ”Alright Nichole, think. First, what was his name?”
Nichole sat with her back against the headboard, her lower half safely under the covers, a warm, pink coffee mug cradled in both hands. ”I don’t remember, Teresa. I swear I don’t. I think it was Tanner, or something like that.”
”I know exactly who he was.” Candace wore an expression which implied complete and utter disgust. “He was Professor Turnbow. I had him for freshman Biology.”
The other three girls’ eyes and jaws all widened at once. “That guy was a professor? He looked so young!”
But Candace was so sure of herself that she didn’t bother replying.
”Oh God, Nichole. You have to tell us everything… every single thing you can remember. This is very important.”
Nichole’s eyes closed as her chin fell to her chest. She didn’t want to do this; to stay awake and tell everything, but how could she get out of it at this point? When it would be absolutely nothing for her to fall over asleep right this very second?
“I remember being at the bar with you guys. I remember us all going up to dance together. He must have been on the dance floor already, because I turned a little and found myself face-to-face with him, dancing with him. He was really quite good, and I couldn’t quit watching his quirky dance moves. And I remember talking to him. We were yelling into each others’ ears above the music and he was nice, and complimentary, and funny. And I remember more drinks, and stepping outside with him for fresh air because I was feeling a little sick, and then he pointed over to his apartment complex and said it would be warmer over there, and quiet… we could talk. And then I remember nothing except that I was really drunk, and that I was hanging onto him as we walked so that I wouldn’t fall down. I remember laughing about how drunk I was, and how I just wanted to sit down, but he kept saying I couldn’t sit down yet, it was just a little further. And he was really very sweet and helpful, although I can see how it could have been manipulative now, still I went along willingly enough. But I can’t remember shit after that… other than waking up naked in his bed with a feeling that I’d been drunk and taken advantage of. Oh, but I do have a vague memory of his hand pushing my head down toward his dick (she conveniently left out that she had begun moving in that direction willingly, and of her own volition) and holding it down there. And I think at some point I was face down on the bed with him on top of me, and that’s it. That’s all I can remember.”
But that was enough. The other three sat in stupefied silence, but all were thinking the same thing. “Men are fucking pigs!”
”Oh God, Nichole.” Candace hesitated before asking the question, her voice a mere whisper. “Did he hurt you?”
Nichole was surprised at the almost cavalier quality her own voice assumed. “No, not at all. I was just ashamed and mortified when I woke up beside him and realized what I had done, what he had done to me.”
Nichole went ahead too and answered the only remaining question which lingered in the air about the suddenly silent bed. “Then I woke up, eased myself out of the bed, put on my clothes, and left. What else could I do?”
It was over. There was nothing more that she could tell them, nothing more that she remembered, although she suspected that plenty had happened that was still unsaid, and that much of it might not reflect positively on her. All three of the other girls were touching some part of her in solidarity, offering positive proof of the true sisterhood that a sorority offered a young woman testing out her wings. These girls were her sisters, and her friends. “You are safe here,“ their touches assured her. “We have you now.” Nichole sunk herself down into their offered comfort, finding herself rock-a-byed to sleep by the steady ticking of fingertips on phone screens.
Still unable to face the world on Monday Nichole ditched it, remaining in bed. At 2:30 in the afternoon she received a text from Teresa that she had made Nichole an appointment on Tuesday afternoon with her Women’s Studies professor, who was also a non-practicing attorney. On Tuesday morning Nichole was feeling physically back to normal again, though not psychologically. She could see no real reason to ditch her classes, but she ditched them anyways, although she did get dressed for her meeting with Teresa’s Professor Finebaum.
The professor was a middle-aged woman with a horrible hair cut which highlighted her general lack of attention to appearance. Nichole was not surprised to find a framed photograph on the bookshelf of the professor’s younger self kissing another similarly masculine looking woman. The office where she and Teresa met the professor was as disheveled as the woman herself was, her desktop being scattered with so many papers, books, and coffee cups that her laptop was nearly invisible beneath it all, giving the impression of one who was extremely busy, and bringing to Nichole’s mind a picture she remembered seeing on the internet of Einstein’s cluttered desk on the day he died.
But Nichole liked her very much. The older woman was insistent that Nichole call her “Abby”. Abby was low-voiced, as most truly confident people are, and was an intent listener, looking overtop of her glasses and leaning forward to probe whenever a misplaced word made Nichole’s meaning unclear.
With the story re-told (along with some added parts that Teresa had not heard the first time), and when Nichole could think of absolutely nothing to add, Abby sat back in her desk chair, adjusting her glasses as she thought.
“You say you don’t remember. Were you conscious?“
”I think so. I remember bits and pieces. I was very drunk.” That last part Nichole whispered meekly.
”Bits and pieces like his pushing your head down toward his penis?”
”Yes.” Nichole felt her face flushing at the other woman’s straightforwardness.
“Were you already naked when he did that?”
”Yes. I think so. I’m pretty sure.”
”Mmm-hmmm. Did you disrobe yourself, or did he do it?”
”I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
”Sigh. I think it’s safe to say you were unconscious.”
”No. There are things I remember, they just don’t seem real.”
”Like what? Tell me what you mean?”
“My eyes were closed.“ Having said that Nichole closed her eyes, willing a return to the thoughts and feelings of that night. “It all seemed far away, like in a dream, like it was happening to someone else, you know?” As Nichole spoke them she realized that her words were the truth, even though her mind’s eye was blind to it. “His kisses were soft, sweet. They were somehow settling. My head stopped spinning while he was kissing me, and my stomach ceased its roiling. The simple act of kissing seemed medicinal for me. When the kissing stopped the sickness returned, the dizziness, so of course I didn’t want the kisses to stop. In that moment I needed them.” Nichole lowered her eyes for the next part, the flooding memories weighting her guilt, leaving her unable to look at Teresa as she leveled with her and Abby. “So then, when he said he wanted to make love to me, and with me not wanting the kissing to stop… I said ok.” With that, Teresa slumped back in her chair. Nichole believed this would be the end of it. She waited shamefully, her eyes lowered, waiting for the storm from Abby Finebaum to start. What she got was a storm alright, but not of the type she was expecting.
”That doesn’t matter.”
Nichole’s eyes clenched tighter. Believing that the confession would end it had been relieving. She’d never really wanted to be involved in all of this, but her initial confession to Teresa had snowballed it out of her control. ”What do you mean? I told him he could do it. I wanted him to. I gave him consent.”
”Well Honey, this world has changed. Consent is tied to the Fourth Amendment now, and a girl’s body is her castle. Do you understand what that means?”
”No, not really.”
”You were very drunk. For all intent and purpose you were unconscious. Inebriated consent to sex does not continue on to include forced lascivious acts that you cannot even remember. Did you give your consent to performing oral sex on him, or did he push your head down there, like you said. Did he force you?”
Nichole didn’t answer. She really wasn’t sure, her uncertainty stemming from the fact that she strangely enjoyed giving head. She considered it her chance to really “see what she was in for,“ as she had bragged to her girlfriends in the past. And because of that, she was pretty sure she had started down there on her own. But if this really went to trial then her mother would be in that courtroom, and her father… possibly even her Nana. That certainly had to be considered in her answer.
And then, even a teensy-little lie right now could ruin a man’s life, possibly even put him in jail, a man who might not deserve it. She did not know how to answer Abby’s question, so she didn’t answer it at all.
”Did you give your consent to anal sex? Or did you awaken to find him on top of you, like you said? Have you been telling me the whole truth, Nichole?”
But Nichole honestly wasn’t sure if she even knew the whole truth.
She felt an irresistible need to see him before meeting again with Abby Finebaum tomorrow morning, as if seeing him might somehow provide her with answers, so Nichole was sitting on a bench outside Staley Hall when he finally emerged. It was too cold to be sitting on an outdoors bench, but she was well layered, having bulked up to present a different appearance, one he probably wouldn’t recognize… and he didn’t. In fact he walked right past her, offering her a quick, respectful nod as he passed by, as anyone polite would naturally give to a stranger in passing, which she almost was. He didn’t look piggish and gross now, when clothed, as he had while lying naked in his bed. In fact, he looked nice, cute even, reminding her of a slightly heavier Ed Sheeran. She could see why she might have been attracted to him in the bar, and she felt a sense of relief from that. When he had passed out of sight Nichole stood up, stretched out her stiffened back, and started off in the other direction, taking the long way back to Tri-Delta House.
Why not take the long route? She had a lot to fucking think about.
“A woman’s body is her castle,“ Abby had stated to her. But Nichole had to decide if her castle been sacked? Or had she opened its gates, inviting the horde inside?
1+3=17
Max was always trouble. He was fun, sexy, and steamy trouble most days, but one particular summer Saturday night Max's lusty trouble turned into my most mortifying sexual experience. I use the word "mortifying" loosely because it was also pretty funny, and left me with an awesome sex story to tell for the rest of my life.
Max and I used to be friends with lots of great benefits. He was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. Unkempt black locks of hair, full black beard and mustache that begged to be suffocated between my thighs, 6'3" with cocky confidence that made him seem 7 feet tall. He was Ecuadorian and Latin men are my weakness. His toasted caramel complexion, mischievous smirk and baritone voice could only be better if there were two of him. And then I met Max's brother, Pablo. There were two of him. Delicious.
"Lydie, have you met Pablo? He's my less attractive little brother." Max always had jokes, and he knew before I said one word that Pablo was exactly my type of man. If Max was my type, Pablo was too. They were nearly identical aside from Max being 30 years old and Pablo being 21. I was smack in the middle of their ages so I could go easily take either one of them.
Max's eyes twinkled with trouble as he whispered in my ear with his hot breath. "You look like you're in the mood for a 2-for-1 special." I melted and tingled in all the right places. I'd never considered being the star of a threesome show, but double Max sounded like a great time. I was game as soon as the words escaped his wet, juicy lips. I bit the right side of my bottom pink lip, pouted ever so slightly, and nodded one time. We were back at Max's apartment before I could utter the words, "Yes please."
The details of Lydie becoming the ultimate center of attention are mouthwatering and yum yum yummy, but this is a story about trouble. Sometime after I lost my humility and became the most hedonistic version of myself that's ever existed, mid-tussle with Max and Younger-Also-Gorgeous Max, there was a knock on the door.
Max's eyes danced and sparkled with wicked devilishness. He knew who was at the door. Max and Pablo have even younger brother. Now there's triplets in the room, and they all worshiped me.
"Lydie, have you met Juanito? He's my youngest brother, and he just graduated from high school in June. Do you think he deserves a little graduation present?" Max teased me with his tongue and persuasive words simultaneously. I was game as soon as the words reverberated across my wet, juicy lips. I silently consented as I pushed Max's head away from my pleasure center and smacked Pablo's taut tan ass a little harder than I expected.
"What kind of graduation gifts would you like tonight, Juan?" My question was obviously rhetorical because this sweaty summer night was about me, not the world's sexiest trio of erect naughty brothers.
I crossed the bedroom in three sensual naked strides with confidence akin to Jenna Jameson. I hotly nuzzled Juan's neck just behind his right earlobe, lifted his black shirt, and lightly tongued the tender skin between his belly button and boxers. I open-mouth kissed the hidden bulge growing beneath his zipper and loosened his belt with ease.
I looked up at Juan as I kneeled and liberated his pulsating youth. My gentle hands warmed him up and just before I opened my mouth...I realized something was amiss.
"Wait." My hands stopped in their generous tracks. "How old are you, Juan?" Uh oh.
"Seventeen." He quietly mumbled, still enjoying himself and lost in the lust to come.
"Oh fuck. Oh no. Dammit Max." Max has always been trouble.
So that was the end of that super sexy summer night. No jailbait boys for me, thank you.
Just kidding; not the end of the night at all. I kicked Juan out of the bedroom, belly laughed with Max and Pablo for misbehaving, and spent another few hours in ecstacy.